


Reeled in

by Unicorn (Jensee)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Entities take the wheel, Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, I'm sure there sould be more tags but I'm finding myself confused at what I've written, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Psychic Rape, Ritual Public Sex, Unwanted powers, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jensee/pseuds/Unicorn
Summary: Of course the Beholding didn't have enough making Tim's boss this weird knowledge monster and trapping him in the worst job he's ever had. Apparently, it needs to insinuate itself in his sex life, as well.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Tim Stoker, The Beholding/Tim Stocker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 99
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	Reeled in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nelja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/gifts).



> xcon exchange gift for Nelja o/  
> I hope you like this and that it holds up to your expectations!! I started with something and then it went in a very different place from what I had planned, but I hope it's still satisfactory.
> 
> Also, I corrected this right after watching the livestream, and having a very vivid image of Mike Lebeau as I was writing about Tim was... pretty wild, I must say >.>
> 
> Enjoy o/ (I hope ^^')

“Life is strange, sometimes, isn’t it?” Olivia says softly, when they’ve both regained most of their breath. She’s lean and soft, her dark skin contrasting beautifully with her pale blue sheets.

“What?” Tim makes the error to ask.

“You know, I’ve never told this to anyone…” She turns to him, and she looks afraid - feels afraid - and that’s when Tim knows something is wrong “but last year…”

Tim wants to tell her to stop, to shut up. He doesn’t want to hear any of it, to _know_ any of it, but she keeps going. She tells him about being trapped under layers of dirt after an ill-advised underground party with friends. He can feel the way the earth had pressed on her, the lightheadedness as her air supply slowly depleted… the slow drag of resignation as she closed her eyes for what felt like the last time…

He manages to escape before she’s out of her trance, barely putting on his pants before running out of her flat, the walls of her building’s corridors feel like they’re closing in, like if he stays for too long he’ll suffocate, buckle under their weight and never escape.

When he realizes the next day he’s left his phone at her apartment, he doesn’t bother to come back for it.

He wants to believe this will stay an isolated incident, but it’s a hard thing to do when he just has to look into a mirror to see the scars littering his body.  
When he’s seen the light fade out of people’s eyes when they talk to his boss.  
When he constantly feels like he’s being followed.

It happens again. One of the officer he’d been flirting with takes him up on his offer for a date, and after they’ve come back to his flat, once Tim feels fucked out and sleepy, the words seems to escape their mouth in that rhythmic, theatrical tone, too perfect to be quite normal.

Once again he can’t move, can’t say anything, can only listen as he sees the dark corners of his creep along the walls, shadows shifting and growing around them; until the light is so dim Tim isn’t sure the person in his bed has still the shape of a human. When their story ends they burst into tears, and Tim doesn’t try to stop them as they hastily flee his flat.

It’s not that hard to connect the dots. Really, it’s not even all that surprising,

just an added fuck you to the whole sordid affair his life has become. The… _Eye_ , or whatever the thing that is presiding over the institute is, is taking more and more control of his life. Because it wasn’t enough that his manager is a fucking freak and that his boss might be an actual monster, now he can’t have sex without somehow extracting some kind of statement from his partner.

It’s making him so unbelievably angry, so… scared and spiteful. He tries to stay away from the institute for a few days, but after the second night he starts to feel queasy, and back at the archives he is again, like a duck unable not to follow its abusive mother. He tries to stay away from his usual haunts, gritting his teeth all the while at the idea that he’s actually letting this bastard of an unknowable terror ruin what’s left of his already thoroughly tattered life.

It’s not even the worst, though.

It’s been a while seems he’d been feeling like he was watched: like a hitch between his shoulder blades, like the low buzzing of a bee out of sight, like something, or someone, is following him. At first he’d started to hope that this was what was happening. That a person, or one of these _thing_ , something dark and sinister, had been tailing him. Something cunning and vicious here to carve his flesh into little, bloody ribbons, something he meet in a last flash of glory; something against which he could give back all of the anger and suffering in a painful, bright explosion.

Whenever he looks behind himself, no one is ever there.

Of course.

But this is different. It _feels_ different. Operative word being “ _feel_ ”.

Martin’s pained warmth when he rebuts his offer of tea brushes down on his skin like a caress. Like a gentle grip on his neck that has him tempted to comply with the other man’s forced companionship. He manages to get away before giving in to it, but it’s a near thing.

Basira gives him a curious glance as he gets some of those damned books in the section of the archives she’s been holing herself in, and he can feel spectral hands running over his thighs. The feeling only intensifies when he curses and her gaze becomes more inquisitive.

Jon is the worst. He feels like he should have been able to predict it but he hadn’t.

Only being in presence of the Archivist immediately feels stifling. Tim has to let out a sound when he opens the door to his boss’s office, only to be hit by a wave of feeling like hundreds of hands are now roaming his body roughly, hard and uneven flesh that feels quite like he would imagine Jon’s scars to feel on his skin. And then Jon is looking at him and the feeling intensifies tenfold, overwhelming in a way that makes him feel like he’s missing out on the air he’s trying to breath in, like the hands are coiling around his throat, over his mouth, pushing imaginary fingers in, spreading his legs and invading his every corner.

“T-Tim?” Jon stutters, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

It’s obvious he’s had no choice but to know exactly what’s happening to Tim.

It takes every ounce of determination he can muster to flee the room.

He locks himself in the first toilet he finds and immediately puts his hand on his dick, struggling with the zipper of his jeans in his haste.

He comes in record time, thinking of Jon’s _Knowing_ every detail of what’s happening, watching as he roughly grabs himself, jerks off to the rhythm of his own halted breathing. He thinks of Jon – even of Elias, of all people - watching as he fails to muffle his own desperate moans. He doesn’t take long before he’s coming all over himself, staining his pants and the white wall of the cubicle he hasn’t even bothered to lock.

It’s a struggle to convince himself to wash the come off the door when he lets himself think of who could come and discover the proof of his indiscretion, but he - barely - manages to do it.

So.

Apparently that's a thing now.

A thing that is happening to Tim.

Right now.

Knowing exactly who or what to blame won’t help. He’s come harder that he has in… a long time, all just _imagining_ how it’d be _like_ to be watched. No one else had even been present. Tim _knows -_ with an absolute certainty that has nothing to do with weird, creepy entities - he’s never been into exhibitionism before, so there is no doubt as to where this new found obsession comes from. He doesn’t even have the luxury to pretend this has nothing to do with the Beholding.

It feels bad, as it should, to know no aspect of his life is free of this… _thing_ , invading every part of him, his mind and his body, like a virus turning all of his own cells against him, growing inside of him like a tumor, like a wrong, sick parody of his own self slowly eating at his mind, until all that is left of him is his consciousness, trapped and unable to stop his body from stepping into a bottomless horror like one would a warm embrace.

It should feel awful.

It does, in a way, but Tim can’t help but think it should feel worse. It should be a sharp pain searing his insides, skewering him on his own shame and disgust: a feeling that leaves him breathless and full of pain, slowly bleeding out the last shred of his comfort and humanity.

And it does. Somewhat.  
But mostly it feels unreasonably good.

The pain is simply to be a channel for the pleasure to hurl itself onto. Every itch, every prick of disgust and humiliation only brings a shiver to his skin and a moan to his lips. Every glances, every look make his stomach roll and his breath catch; makes to vomit and feel the acid on his tongue; makes him want to stop and spread his legs for them to see more, for _everyone_ to _know_ him, until no shadows are left, until the only mystery he presents is the thinning tether to his sanity.

He tries to resist.

Of course he does.

He can’t avoid the Institute without feeling himself start to dwindle away, so he goes about his work trying to ignore the grasping stares brushing his body. He barely talks to anyone anymore, and finds his own schedule shifting so he’s in the Archives mostly at night, hiding himself in dark corner of the library, avoiding stares and glances as much as he can.

Being alone, even with the ever present eye looming over his every movement, offers some kind of reprieve over the shiver zapping under his skin whenever someone so much as glance at him. Most of the time he can ignore the feeling slowly building on his over-sensitive skin, like the barely there touch of a million fingers leaving his hair on end, and his skin yearning outwards in shivering goosebumps.

It’s enough of a relief that he has a fleeting moment to believe he’s managed to beat the curse, to escape this particular scheme. A moment to think that, as long as he can stay holed up in the Archives long enough, stay safe and close in the belly of the beast, he can be spared of its wiles. Maybe that is what the Beholding wants after all, to keep him under lock and key. Maybe his submission is enough of a surrender for it.

But of course it isn’t.

The hitch under his skin, a persistent thrum of pleasure, starts to build rather than recede. It expends for his neck and his chest to his arms and his hands, from the fragile skin at the interior of his thighs to the tip of his toes. It’s an intoxicating, burning touch, like alcohol when it’s poured down his throat, like a fire alighting everyone of his senses. A feeling that only grows exponentially, until his thoughts are helpless to do anything but circle back, over and over, to the shiver upon his skin, the burning sensation of being seen; of being _known_.

The books he’s pretending to read turn blurry as he stares right through them – his brain somehow picking up on words he doesn’t have the wherewithal to understand – halfway expecting to find tiny eyes hidden in the letters: looking back at him; _watching_ ; _knowing_ as he feels him mind gradually fall into a looping feedback of barely there whispers over his skin.

The Eye doesn’t allow for him to be satisfied with that incessant hitch under his skin, of course. the pressure builds and builds inside of him, but the feeling always stays at the very limit between simple discomfort and guilty pleasure. It’s a line thin enough to torture, but never to break, and when Tim finally gives in and touches himself, right there in the middle of the shelves, the orgasm he manages to bring out of himself is barely satisfying, the hitches under his skin left to be an uncomfortable rash in the absence of actual eyes to look at him.

The Eye isn’t satisfied with such a mediocre sacrifice.

He resists for some time. He’s lost count of the days - his sleep is restless; full of dreams where he can only watch, endlessly, as million eyes stare directly at him, blinking slowly with irises big enough for him to entirely drown himself in - but when he breaks, his tired, overworked mind is all too conscious it hasn’t been nearly as long as his pride should allow.

It _burns_ , like the worst tease Tim has ever experienced, stretched out for hours, days, and comes a point where he can’t stand it anymore. He lets the last barrier on his mind - the last bastion of his resistance - break, and he takes a breath as the sensation intensifies.  
No part of him is left unknown: he is entirely bare for the Eye.

He can’t help the moan that escapes out of his throat. It resonates hollowly in the dark corridors of the Archives. Even that is enough: he can _feel_ the attention it attracts; monstrous, nameless beings absorbing each and every one of the sounds forcibly drawn out of his mouth, and the rush of pleasure flooding him at the knowledge being granted to him.

But it’s not enough. Not nearly.

He needs something else. Something more. To be witnessed.

The illuminated hallways burn his eyes after the darkness of the Archives, but he moans at the feeling, revealing in the light dancing on his skin, allowing for more of him to be exposed. His feet drag but he keeps going, light-headed and desperate. He reaches a door, open, and can’t help the tortuous moan escaping him when he immediately feels the golden ecstasy of being known enveloping him as keen eyes catalogue every inch of his being with luxurious greed.

“Ah, _Tim_. Just the man I was hoping to _see_.”

The words resonate and echo in his brain, their meaning forgotten as he finally basks in the sun his hitches need to fully bloom. He barely feels it as

his fingers rip his clothes away from him, never fast enough to satisfy the desire to reveal his very being to those endless, hungry eyes, so numerous in this room, coveting him and desiring him.

It’ all too much.

It’s perfect.

“Ah. Right. I assumed something like this was bound to happen.”

Tim’s skin is alight with a thousand piercing stares, too wound up and starved to register much, but he can discern a face he knows, the knowledge flooded by the attention poured down his body like a stream of consciousness.

Elias smiles at him, tight lipped and smug.

“Well, Tim. I see you have finally decided to use the full extent of your ability.”

He should get out, flee, suffer through the sickness and the nausea, let himself rot and fade away from this accursed place.

Instead, he breathes out a desperate breath, and lets the rest of his clothing fall at his feet.

“ _Elias_ ” He tries to growl in anger, but even to his own ears, the name sounds like a plea. “ _Stop it_ ”

The burning intensifies as he gets closer, but he can’t quite control himself, can’t quite stop his own unstoppable advance on Elias’ desk.

“I’m not doing anything, Tim.” his voice is tranquil, poised with no hint of uncertainty or surprise. If anything, he seems distantly pleased, like the distracted parent of a precocious child. “But you already knew that.”

A moan escapes Tim, sounding even more desperate that he’d realized. The knowledge pushing at his skin is getting more insistent with Elias’ keen glare directed his way, and there is nothing to keep him from opening his legs, unable to dispel his need to be touched - to be seen - where he most need it. Elias doesn’t even have the decency to look flustered, but Tim can feel his gaze upon his dark, painful cock, and he can barely suppress at sob at the relief of that touch.

“ _Why are you- ahh_ ”

Elias leans against his hand to watch as Tim writhes against the phantom touches on his cock. 

“This is merely the way the Beholding decided to make use of you. If you think about it, it’s not that surprising.”

Bringing his hand to his cock brings Tim a painful relief, and he whimpers. The eyes on him are making the touch enjoyable at last, and nothing could stop him from desperately stripping his cock. He can feel his stomach roil as he jerks off in front of his unconcerned boss, keenly feeling the debasement and the humiliation of his position, but the mere idea of stopping is torture, and he feels he has no choice but to expose more of himself, to let his pleasure be Elias’s entertainment, to satisfy him with the sight of him.

He wants to feel the disgust he can feel building at the hollow of his throat, but the waves after waves of overstimulating pleasure are rendering him unable to even conceptualize anything but the burning glare upon his skin.

“I know you tend to have a lot of grievance, but I fear you can’t deny our patron was entirely right about you, Tim.”

Tim can hear him as if he was far away, all too conscious of his own labored breaths and pleasured gasps, conscious of the moaning, trembling mess he is, some piece of candy reduced to begging and crying, victim to a pleasure they are no longer the owner off.

The Beholding has made him - he knows with an inescapable certainty - into a simple vessel for its pleasure. The perfect toys for its ragtag bunch of starving voyeurs.

He comes with a pitiful moan, and feel water falls from his eyes when the orgasm racing through his body does nothing to alienate the burning pleasure cursing through him.

Elias is still talking, clearer now that Tim’s legs have brought him closer to his desk. Without quite controlling himself, Tim half climbs, half falls forward onto his desk, using the surface to support his weight as he stretches his limbs wider, more open, more exposed, to feel more of that burning pleasure.  
It’s too much, way too much, but he can’t shake the need for _more_ , to be seen and appraised, to be _known_.

Elias sighs, as if having him being splayed across his desk is a big inconvenience. The part of Tim’s mind that still manages to be horrified and furious at all this hopes he’s ruined something important with his sweat and the spunk dripping from his stomach and thighs. The rest of him has been reduced to a begging, crying mess, and he fumbles with his hands to try and get to his own hole, desperate to soothe the fire that has managed to reach even his insides.

He hears a moan fall from his own mouth, broken and stuttering, when Elias pulls his hair to look him in the eyes. He’s still affecting a bored expression, but pleasure flares at Tim’s mouth like he’s been viciously bitten when he catches a glimmer of interest deep into those dark eyes.

“I guess that was to be expected. You barely need to be pushed to become a mere slut, _don’t you_ , _Tim_?”

He wants to close his eyes, lets the words and the humiliation wash over him, but he can’t bring himself to do it, instead writhing in the pleasure brought down upon him by the thousand of stares he can feel through Elias.

“Well go on, then. At least, this is _somewhat_ entertaining to watch.”

He finally reaches his hole, and he arches his back to get his fingers as deep as possible inside himself. He’s fully conscious of the show he’s putting on, and while he would try to at least be a bit discreet were he even remotely in his right mind, the realization only makes him moan louder right now: knowing he’d be as much of a show from one end of the desk to the other, splayed open and vulnerable, begging for any touch and only getting an half hearted pull on his hair from his blasé boss.

The voice inside of him that claims that this is insanity, that this is not what he wants, what he should do, that orders him to stop, pull his fingers out of his ass, pull his clothes back on and flees to some somber, dark place, where no eyes can reach him, is starting to be drowned out by the moans his sore throat keeps making. He can feel himself slowly dissolve in too bright a world, in an endless sea of stares burning his skin; and he doesn’t quite know whether this would be worse than to wake up from this the next day, fully conscious of his own thoughts and actions, forced to admit this part of him has existed long before it was put on a leash.

“While I appreciate that you found your calling,” Elias is intoning calmly as he idly pulls at some of Tim’s strands. “I can’t exactly have you hogging my desk in such a manner, Mr. Stoker. I hope you do understand that.”

The meaning of the words hit Tim with no effort, and he wants to scream - in horror or in supplication, he doesn’t know – at the idea. He imagines Elias putting him in one of those cages in a strip-club, letting him to be gawked at like an animal, unable to escape the stares or to stop putting on a show for the hungry eyes around him. Helpless, a creature to be seen and seen only, a mindless expense of skin and fear, exposed and paraded like a juicy piece of meat. The worst of it may be that it’s starting to seem like an appealing outcome, like something he’d yearn and ask for, and he’s thorn between dreading and hoping that Elias asks him to beg for it.

He can’t be sure he will refuse.

There’s a noise behind him. A knock, suddenly reminding Tim he never cared to close the door to Elias’ office.

“Elias, what-“ Jon’s sentence cuts in a strangled sound.

The Archivist’s eyes fall on Tim’s writhing form and the power of his knowing hits him immediately, a powerful inescapable wave of pleasure that rips a shocked shout out of his mouth as he comes for a second time.

He turns his head to look at Jon, his vision somehow still entirely clear despite the tears making it blurry, and his eyes meet those of the Archivist.

It’s like a slam to the chest. Somehow, when he meets those clear irises - their color washed away as if the Beholding has made him blind instead of granting him perfect vision – he instantly _Knows_. He sees himself through The Archivist’s eyes: a man open and desperate, skin stained with his own cum and leg spread around jittery fingers; lost and begging, in prayer, exposed and offering

. He feels through him not only the overwhelming sensation of being seen that has been taking him over, but the rush of information Jon gets as he Watches him, as his pleasure and his desperation hit him like a wave in a tempest. He can see every pore on his own skin, feel every inch of himself all at once, and how the sensation echoes between him and the Archivist, endlessly, stuck in a loop of reluctant worship and unavoidable, unbearable pleasure.

It feels like Tim imagines being struck by lightning feels, like suddenly, every part of himself, body and mind, spirit and soul, is alight with an energy much too powerful for him alone to hold. It’s _Knowledge_ , in all its terrifying, all seeing, absurd entirety. So much Tim can barely keep breathing. So much he can’t process any of it, and all that is left is simply, an Eye: gigantic, burning him with his impossible stare, watching and cataloguing everything, until it’s all Tim can even conceptualize.

Jon gasps. A short, sharp breath halfway between a moan and a punch to the gut.

The door to the Archivist’s mind slams shut and Tim feels himself collapse back on himself, every sensation he’s been able to parse as he was drowning in the Watcher’s eye snapping back into him like a heated rubber.

It’s too much.

Distantly, he feels himself scream; the sound lost on his ears as his whole vision becomes completely white.

Then fades to black.

He thinks he hears Jon say something, but he has no time to wonder what it is before he’s dragged under.

He passes out, but he doesn’t escape the dreams.


End file.
